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I 


THE  BALLAD  OF 
READING  GAOL 


lO  ■ 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READ- 
ING GAOL  BY  OSCAR 
WILDE 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS    B    MOSHER 

MDCCCCIV 


IN   MEMORIAM 

C.    T.    W. 

SOMETIME  TROOPER   OF  THE    ROYAL   HORSE   GUARDS. 

OBIIT   H.    M.    PRISON,    READING,    BERKSHIRE, 

JULY   7,    1896 


THE  BALLAD  OF 
READING  GAOL 


[the  I  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL 
I  BY  I  C.  3.  3.  I  LEONARD  SMITHERS 
I  ROYAL  AKCADE,  LONDON,  W.,  | 
MDCCCXCVm.   I 

Octavo,     pp.  viii+31.     Printed  on 
one  side  of  the  leaf  throughout.] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL 


I 


E  did  not  wear  his  scarlet  coat, 
For  blood  and  wine  are  red, 
I  And  blood  and  wine  were  on  his 
hands 
When  they  found  him  with  the 
dead, 
The  poor  dead  woman  whom  he  loved, 
And  murdered  in  her  bed. 


He  walked  amongst  the  Trial  Men 

In  a  suit  of  shabby  gray; 
A  cricket  cap  was  on  his  head, 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay; 
But  I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

So  wistfully  at  the  day. 


I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 
With  such  a  wistful  eye 


Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 
Which  prisoners  call  the  sky, 

And  at  every  drifting  cloud  that  v/ent 
With  sails  of  silver  by. 

I  walked,  with  other  souls  in  pain, 

Within  another  ring, 
And  was  wondering  if  the  man  had  done 

A  great  or  little  thing, 
When  a  voice  behind  me  whispered  low, 

''  That  fellow 's  got  to  swing.'* 

Dear  Christ !  the  very  prison  walls 

Suddenly  seemed  to  reel. 
And  the  sky  above  my  head  became 

Ivike  a  casque  of  scorching  steel ; 
And,  though  I  was  a  soul  in  pain, 

My  pain  I  could  not  feel. 

I  only  knew  v/hat  hunted  thought 
Quickened  his  step,  and  why 

He  looked  upon  the  garish  day 
With  such  a  wistful  eye ; 

The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved, 
And  so  he  had  to  die. 


Yet  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves. 

By  each  let  this  be  heard, 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look, 

Some  with  a  flattering  word, 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  k'ss. 

The  brave  man  with  a  sword  ! 

Some  kill  their  love  when  they  are  young. 
And  some  when  they  are  old; 

Some  strangle  with  the  hands  of  Lust, 
Some  with  the  hands  of  Gold : 

The  kindest  use  a  knife,  because 
The  dead  so  soon  grow  cold. 

Some  love  too  little,  some  too  long, 

Some  sell,  and  others  buy ; 
Some  do  the  deed  with  many  tears, 

And  some  without  a  sigh : 
For  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves, 

Yet  each  man  does  not  die. 


He  does  not  die  a  death  of  shame 

On  a  day  of  dark  disgrace. 
Nor  have  a  noose  about  his  neck, 

Nor  a  cloth  upon  his  face. 
Nor  drop  feet  foremost  through  the  floor 

Into  an  empty  space. 


He  does  not  sit  with  silent  men 

Who  watch  him  night  and  day; 
Who  watch  him  when  he  tries  to  weep, 

And  when  he  tries  to  pray; 
Who  watch  him  lest  himself  should  rob 

The  prison  of  its  prey. 

He  does  not  wake  at  dawn  to  see 

Dread  figures  throng  his  room, 
The  shivering  Chaplain  robed  in  white, 

The  Sheriff  stern  with  gloom, 
And  the  Governor  all  in  shiny  black. 

With  the  yellow  face  of  Doom. 

He  does  not  rise  in  piteous  haste 

To  put  on  convict-clothes, 
While  some  coarse-mouthed  Doctor  gloats,  and 
notes 

Each  new  and  nerve-twitched  pose. 
Fingering  a  watch  whose  little  ticks 

Are  like  horrible  hammer-blows. 

He  does  not  know  that  sickening  thirst 

That  sands  one's  throat,  before 
The  hangman  with  his  gardener's  gloves 

Slips  through  the  padded  door, 
And  binds  one  with  three  leathern  thongs. 

That  the  throat  may  thirst  no  more. 


He  does  not  bend  his  head  to  hear 

The  Burial  Office  read, 
Nor,  while  the  terror  of  his  soul 

Tells  him  he  is  not  dead. 
Cross  his  own  coffin,  as  he  moves 

Into  the  hideous  shed. 

He  does  not  stare  upon  the  air 
Through  a  little  roof  of  glass : 

He  does  not  pray  with  lips  of  clay 
For  his  agony  to  pass; 

Nor  feel  upon  his  shuddering  cheek 
The  kiss  of  Caiaphas. 


II 


O IX  weeks  our  guardsman  walked  the  yard, 
^     In  the  znit  of  shabbj^  gray : 
His  cricket  cap  was  on  his  head. 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay, 
But  I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

So  w^stf^illy  at  the  day. 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

With  such  a  wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

Which  prisoners  call  the  sky, 
And  at  every  wandering  cloud  that  trailed 

Its  ravelled  fleeces  by. 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands,  as  do 

T'hose  witless  men  who  dare 
To  try  to  rear  the  changeling  Hope 

In  the  cave  of  black  Despair : 
He  only  looked  upon  the  sun, 

And  drank  rhe  morning  air. 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands  nor  weep, 
Nor  did  he  peek  or  pine, 


But  he  drank  the  air  as  though  it  held 

Some  healthful  anodyne; 
With  open  mouth  he  drank  the  sun 

As  though  it  had  been  wine  ! 

And  I  and  all  the  souls  in  pain, 
Who  tramped  the  other  ring, 

Forgot  if  we  ourselves  had  done 
A  great  or  little  thing. 

And  watched  with  gaze  of  dull  amaze 
The  man  who  had  to  swing. 

And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  pass 
With  a  step  so  light  and  gay, 

And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  look 
So  wistfully  at  the  day. 

And  strange  it  was  to  think  that  he 
Had  such  a  debt  to  pay. 

% 

For  oak  and  elm  have  pleasant  leaves 
That  in  the  spring-time  shoot : 

But  grim  to  see  is  the  gallows-tree. 
With  its  adder-bitten  root, 

And,  green  or  dry,  a  man  must  die 
Before  it  bears  its  fruit ! 


The  loftiest  place  is  that  seat  of  grace 
For  which  all  worldlings  try : 

But  who  would  stand  in  hempen  band 
Upon  a  scaffold  high, 

And  through  a  murderer's  collar  take 
His  last  look  at  the  sky? 

It  is  sweet  to  dance  to  violins 
When  Love  and  Life  are  fair: 

To  dance  to  flutes,  to  dance  to  lutes 
Is  delicate  and  rare : 

But  it  is  not  sweet  with  nimble  feet 
To  dance  upon  the  air ! 

So  with  curious  eyes  and  sick  surmise 
We  watched  him  day  by  day, 

And  wondered  if  each  one  of  us 
Would  end  the  self-same  way, 

For  none  can  tell  to  what  red  Hell 
His  sightless  soul  may  stray. 


At  last  the  dead  man  walked  no  more 

Amongst  the  Trial  Men, 
And  I  knew  that  he  was  standing  up 

In  the  black  dock's  dreadful  pen, 
And  that  never  would  I  see  his  face 

In  God's  sweet  world  again, 

10 


Like  two  doomed  ships  that  pass  In  storm 
We  had  crossed  each  other's  way : 

But  we  made  no  sign,  we  said  no  word, 
We  had  no  word  to  say ; 

For  we  did  not  meet  in  the  holy  night, 
But  in  the  shameful  day. 

A  prison  wall  was  round  us  both. 

Two  outcast  men  we  were  : 
The  world  had  thrust  us  from  its  heart, 

And  God  from  out  His  care  : 
And  the  iron  gin  that  waits  for  Sin 

Had  caught  us  in  its  snare. 


H 


Ill 

TN  Debtors'  Yard  the  stones  are  hard, 
^     And  the  dripping  wall  is  high. 
So  it  was  there  he  took  the  air 

Beneath  the  leaden  sky, 
And  by  each  side  a  Warder  walked, 

For  fear  the  man  might  die. 

Or  else  he  sat  with  those  who  watched 

His  anguish  night  and  day; 
Who  watched  him  when  he  rose  to  weep, 

And  when  he  crouched  to  pray, 
Who  watched  him  lest  himself  should  rob 

Their  scaffold  of  its  prey. 

The  Governor  was  strong  upon 

The  Regulations  Act : 
The  Doctor  said  that  Death  was  but 

A  scientific  fact : 
And  twice  a  day  the  Chaplain  called, 

And  left  a  little  tract. 

And  twice  a  day  he  smoked  his  pipe, 
And  drank  his  quart  of  beer  : 

12 


His  soul  was  resolute,  and  held 
No  hiding-place  for  fear; 

He  often  said  that  he  was  glad 
The  hangman's  hands  were  near. 

But  why  he  said  so  strange  a  thing 
No  Warder  dared  to  ask : 

For  he  to  whom  a  watcher's  doom 
Is  given  as  his  task, 

Must  set  a  lock  upon  his  lips, 
And  make  his  face  a  mask. 

Or  else  he  might  be  moved,  and  try 

To  comfort  or  console  : 
And  what  should  Human  Pity  do 

Pent  up  in  Murderers'  Hole? 
What  word  of  grace  in  such  a  place 

Could  help  a  brother's  soul  ? 


With  slouch  and  swing  around  the  ring 
We  trod  the  Fools'  Parade  ! 

We  did  not  care :  we  knew  we  were 
The  Devil's  Own  Brigade  : 

And  shaven  head  and  feet  of  lead 
Make  a  merry  masquerade. 


We  tore  the  tarry  rope  to  shreds 

With  blunt  and  bleeding  nails ; 
We  rubbed  the  doors,  and  scrubbed  the  floors, 

And  cleaned  the  shining  rails : 
And,  rank  by  rank,  we  soaped  the  plank, 

And  clattered  with  the  pails. 

We  sewed  the  sacks,  we  broke  the  stones. 

We  turned  the  dusty  drill  : 
We  banged  the  tins,  and  bawled  the  hymns, 

And  sweated  on  the  mill : 
But  in  the  heart  of  every  man 

Terror  was  lying  still. 

So  still  it  lay  that  every  day 

Crawled  like  a  weed-clogged  wave : 

And  we  forgot  the  bitter  lot 
That  waits  for  fool  and  knave. 

Till  once,  as  we  tramped  in  from  work. 
We  passed  an  open  grave. 

With  yawning  mouth  the  yellow  hole 

Gaped  for  a  living  thing ; 
The  very  mud  cried  out  for  blood 

To  the  thirsty  asphalte  ring  : 
And  we  knew  that  ere  one  dawn  grew  fair 

Some  prisoner  had  to  swing. 

14 


Right  in  we  went,  with  soul  intent 
On  Death  and  Dread  and  Doom : 

The  hangman,  with  his  little  bag, 
Went  shuffling  through  the  gloom  : 

And  each  man  trembled  as  he  crept 
Into  his  numbered  tomb. 

3^ 

That  night  the  empty  corridors 

Were  full  of  forms  of  Fear, 
And  up  and  down  the  iron  town 

Stole  feet  we  could  not  hear, 
And  through  the  bars  that  hide  the  stars 

White  faces  seemed  to  peer. 

He  lay  as  one  who  lies  and  dreams 

In  a  pleasant  meadow-land, 
The  watchers  watched  him  as  he  slept, 

And  could  not  understand 
How  one  could  sleep  so  sweet  a  sleep 

With  a  hangman  close  at  hand. 

But  there  is  no  sleep  when  men  must  weep 

Who  never  yet  have  wept : 
So  we  —  the  fool,  the  fraud,  the  knave  — 

That  endless  vigil  kept, 

15 


And  through  each  brain  on  hands  of  pain 
Another's  terror  crept. 

Alas !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  feel  another's  guilt ! 
For,  right  within,  the  sword  of  Sin 

Pierced  to  its  poisoned  hilt, 
And  as  molten  lead  were  the  tears  we  shed 

For  the  blood  we  had  not  spilt. 

The  Warders  with  their  shoes  of  felt 
Crept  by  each  padlocked  door, 

And  pev^ped  and  saw,  with  eyes  of  awe, 
Gray  figures  on  the  floor, 

And  wondered  why  men  knelt  to  pray 
Who  never  prayed  before. 

All  through  the  night  we  knelt  and  prayed. 

Mad  mourners  of  a  corse  ! 
The  troubled  plumes  of  midnight  were 

The  plumes  upon  a  hearse  : 
And  bitter  wine  upon  a  sponge 

Was  the  savour  of  Remorse. 


The  gray  cock  crew,  the  red  cock  crew, 
But  never  came  the  day : 

16 


And  crooked  shapes  of  Terror  crouched. 

In  the  corners  where  we  lay : 
And  each  evil  sprite  that  walks  by  night 

Before  us  seemed  to  play. 

They  glided  past,  they  glided  fast, 

Like  travellers  through  a  mist: 
They  mocked  the  moon  m  a  rigadoon 

Of  delicate  turn  and  twist, 
And  with  formal  pace  and  loathsome  grace 

The  phantoms  kept  their  tryst. 

With  mop  and  mow,  we  saw  them  go. 

Slim  shadows  hand  in  hand  : 
About,  about,  in  ghostly  rout 

They  trod  a  saraband  : 
And  the  damned  grotesques  made  arabesques, 

Like  the  wind  upon  the  sand  ! 

With  the  pirouettes  of  marionettes. 

They  tripped  on  pointed  tread  : 
But  with  flutes  of  Fear  they  filled  the  ear. 

As  their  grisly  masque  they  led, 
And  loud  they  sang,  and  long  they  sang. 

For  they  sang  to  wake  the  dead. 

*^0ho  !^'  they  cried,  ''The  world  is  wide, 
But  fettered  limbs  go  lame  I 

17 


And  once,  or  twice,  to  throw  the  dice 

Is  a  gentlemanly  game, 
But  he  does  not  win  who  plays  with  Sin 

In  the  secret  House  of  Shame, '^ 


No  things  of  air  these  antics  were, 

That  frolicked  with  such  glee : 
To  men  whose  lives  were  held  in  gyves, 

And  whose  feet  might  not  go  free, 
Ah !  wounds  of  Christ !  they  were  living  things, 

Most  terrible  to  see. 

Around,  around,  they  waltzed  and  wound ; 

Some  wheeled  in  smirking  pairs ; 
With  the  mincing  step  of  a  demirep 

Some  sidled  up  the  stairs : 
And  with  subtle  sneer,  and  fawning  leer, 

Each  helped  us  at  our  prayers. 


The  morning  wind  began  to  moan, 

But  still  the  night  went  on : 
Through  its  giant  loom  the  web  of  gloom 

Crept  till  each  thread  was  spun : 
And,  as  we  prayed,  we  grew  afraid 

Of  the  Justice  of  the  Sun. 

18 


The  moaning  wind  went  wandering  round 

The  weeping  prison-wall : 
Till  like  a  wheel  of  turning  steel 

We  felt  the  minutes  crawl : 
O  moaning  wind  !  what  had  we  done 

To  have  such  a  seneschal  ? 

At  last  I  saw  the  shadowed  bars, 
Like  a  lattice  wrought  in  lead, 

Move  right  across  the  whitewashed  wall 
That  faced  my  three-plank  bed. 

And  I  knew  that  somewhere  in  the  world 
God*s  dreadful  dawn  was  red. 


At  six  o'clock  we  cleaned  our  cells, 

At  seven  all  was  still. 
But  the  sough  and  swing  of  a  mighty  wing 

The  prison  seemed  to  fill. 
For  the  Lord  of  Death  with  icy  breath 

Had  entered  in  to  kill. 

He  did  not  pass  in  purple  pomp, 

Nor  ride  a  moon-white  steed. 
Three  yards  of  cord  and  a  sliding  board 

Are  all  the  gallows'  need : 

19 


L 


So  with  rope  of  shame  the  Herald  came 
To  do  the  secret  deed.    ,^^q  aniq^sw  iwf  J 


We  were  as  men  who  through  a  ferf*i^''nuom  () 

Of  filthy  darkness  grope  : 
We  did  not  dare  to  breath  a  prayer, 

Or  to  give  our  anguish  scope : 
Something  was  dead  in  each  of  us. 

And  what  was  dead  was  Hope. 

For  Man's  grim  Justice  goes  its  way,  ^^ 

And  will  not  swerve  aside : 
It  slays  the  weak,  it  slays  the  strong, 

It  has  a  deadly  stride  : 
With  iron  heel  it  slays  the  strong. 

The  monstrous  parricide  ! 


We  waited  for  the  stroke  of  eight : 
Each  tongue  was  thick  with  thirst : 

For  the  stroke  of  eight  is  the  stroke  6f  F^ 
That  makes  a  man  accursed,        ''^^^'^  ^ 

And  Fate  will  use  a  running  noose 
For  the  best  man  and  the  worst. 

:    i^liflw-flOUffi    r   ')!. 

We  had  no  other  thing  to  do, 

Save  to  wait  for  the  sign  to  come : 

20 


So,  like  things  of  stone  in  a  valley  lone, 

Quiet  we  sat  and  dumb : 
But  each  man's  heart  beat  thick  and  quick, 

Like  a  madman  on  a  drum  ! 

With  sudden  shock  the  prison-clock     ,,■.    jy 
Smote  on  the  shivering  air,  j    r\ 

And  from  all  the  gaol  rose  up  a  wail         j^    q 
Of  impotent  despair,  :  •  •  • 

Like  the  sound  that  frightened  marshes  hear 
From  some  leper  in  his  lair. 

And  as  one  sees  most  fearful  things  \^^ 

In  the  crystal  of  a  dream. 
We  saw  the  greasy  hempen  rope 

Hooked  to  the  blackened  beam, 
And  heard  the  prayer  the  hangman's  snare 

Strangled  into  a  scream. 

And  all  the  woe  that  moved  him  so  ^^-^ 

That  he  gave  that  bitter  cry. 
And  the  wild  regrets,  and  the  bloody  sweats. 

None  knew  so  well  as  I :      . 
For  he  who  lives  more  lives  than  one 

More  deaths  than  one  must  die^^  wKZii^van  I 

Houg  riJiV/ 


u 


.^m^  ^^h  ^   tr  -^r  --^  !:n  ^gv 


IV 

^TT^HERE  is  no  chapel  on  the  day 
-■■        On  which  they  hang  a  man: 
The  Chaplain's  heart  is  far  too  sick. 

Or  his  face  is  far  too  wan, 
Or  there  is  that  written  in  his  eyes 

Which  none  should  look  upon. 

So  they  kept  us  close  till  nigh  on  noon, 

And  then  they  rang  the  bell, 
And  the  Warders  with  their  jingling  keys 

Opened  each  listening  cell, 
And  down  the  iron  stair  we  tramped, 

Each  from  his  separate  Hell. 

Out  into  God*s  sweet  air  we  went. 

But  not  in  wonted  way, 
For  this  man's  face  was  white  with  fear. 

And  that  man's  face  was  gray, 
And  I  never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 

So  wistfully  at  the  day. 

I  never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 
With  such  a  wistful  eye 

2| 


Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

We  prisoners  called  the  sky, 
And  at  every  careless  cloud  that  passed 

In  happy  freedom  by. 

But  there  were  those  amongst  us  all 
Who  walked  with  downcast  head, 

And  knew  that,  had  each  got  his  due, 
They  should  have  died  instead : 

He  had  but  killed  a  thing  that  lived, 
Whilst  they  had  killed  the  dead. 

For  he  who  sins  a  second  time 

Wakes  a  dead  soul  to  pain. 
And  draws  it  from  its  spotted  shroud, 

And  makes  it  bleed  again. 
And  makes  it  bleed  great  gouts  of  blood. 

And  makes  it  bleed  in  vain  ! 

Like  ape  or  clown,  in  monstrous  garb 

With  crooked  arrows  starred. 
Silently  we  went  round  and  round 

The  slippery  asphalte  yard ; 
Silently  we  went  round  and  round, 

And  no  man  spoke  a  word.  o?  i/?.4i:/ 

2a 


Silently  we  went  round  and  round, 
And  through  e^h  hollow  mind 

The  Memory  of  dreadful  things 
Rushed  like  a  dreadful  wind, 

And  Horror  stalked  before  each  man, 
And  Terror  crept  behind. 


The  Warders  strutted  up  and  down^j   j^jjfjy. 

And  kept  their  herd  of  brutes, 
Their  uniforms  were  spick  and  span, 

And  they  wore  their  Sunday  suits. 
But  we  knew  the  work  they  had  been  at. 

By  the  quicklime  on  their  boots. 

For  where  a  grave  had  opened  wide, 

There  was  no  grave  at  all : 
Only  a  stretch  of  mud  and  sand 

By  the  hideous  prison-wall. 
And  a  little  heap  of  burning  lime, 

That  the  man  should  have  his  pall. 

For  he  has  a  pall,  this  wretched  man, 

Such  as  few  men  can  claim : 
Deep  down  below  a  prison-yard. 

Naked  for  greater  shame, 

3C 


He  lies,  with  fetters  on  each  foot, 
Wrapt  in  a  sheet  of  flame  ! 

And  all  the  while  the  burning  lime 
Eats  flesh  and  bone  away, 

It  eats  the  brittle  bone  by  night, 
And  the  soft  flesh  by  day, 

It  eats  the  flesh  and  bone  by  turns, 
But  it  eats  the  heart  alway. 


rvy 


For  three  long  years  they  will  not  sow 

Or  root  or  seedling  there  : 
For  three  long  years  the  unblessed  spot 

Will  sterile  be  and  bare, 

And  look  upon  the  wondering  sky 

With  unreproachful  stare.  ^  "^^  ^  ^ 

IT 

They  think  a  murderer's  heart  would  taint 

Each  simple  seed  they  sow. 
It  is  not  true  !     God's  kindly  earth  ,      ^ 

Is  kindlier  than  men  know. 

And  the  red  rose  would  but  blow  more  red, 

The  white  rose  whiter  blow.     '/   -   -  i-  -_"^^ 

.A  djiw  81  J«dl 

Out  of  his  mouth  a  red,  red  rosef'  *'''*^''  ^  ^'^'^ 
Out  of  his  heart  a  white  !  '^"^  •^'''''  ''^ 

25 


For  who  can  say  by  what  strange  way, 
Christ  brings  His  will  to  light, 

Since  the  barren  staff  the  pilgrim  bore 
Bloomed  in  the  great  Pope's  sight? 

But  neither  milk-white  rose  nor  red 

May  bloom  in  prison  air; 
The  shard,  the  pebble,  and  the  flint. 

Are  what  they  give  us  there : 
For  flowers  have  been  known  to  heal 

A  common  man's  despair. 

So  never  will  wine-red  rose  or  white, 

Petal  by  petal,  fall 
On  that  stretch  of  mud  and  sand  that  lies 

By  the  hideous  prison-wall, 
To  tell  the  men  who  tramp  the  yard 

That  God's  Son  died  for  all. 


Yet  though  the  hideous  prison-wall 
Still  hems  him  round  and  round. 

And  a  spirit  may  not  walk  by  night 
That  is  with  fetters  bound, 

And  a  spirit  may  but  weep  that  lies 
In  such  unholy  ground. 

26 


He  is  at  peace  —  this  wretched  man  — 

At  peace,  or  will  be  soon : 
There  is  no  thing  to  make  him  mad, 

Nor  does  Terror  walk  at  noon, 
For  the  lampless  Earth  in  which  he  lies 

Has  neither  Sun  nor  Moon. 


They  hanged  him  as  a  beast  is  hanged : 

They  did  not  even  toll 
A  requiem  that  might  have  brought 

Rest  to  his  startled  soul, 
But  hurriedly  they  took  him  out, 

And  hid  him  in  a  hole. 

They  stripped  him  of  his  canvas  clothes, 

And  gave  him  to  the  flies : 
They  mocked  the  swollen  purple  throat. 

And  the  stark  and  staring  eyes : 
And  with  laughter  loud  they  heaped  the  shroud 

In  which  their  convict  lies. 

The  Chaplain  would  not  kneel  to  pray 

By  his  dishonoured  grave  : 
Nor  mark  it  with  that  blessed  Cross 

That  Christ  for  sinners  gave, 
Because  the  man  was  one  of  those 

Whom  Christ  came  down  to  save. 

27 


Yet  all  is  well ;  he  has  but  passed 

To  Life's  appointed  bourne : 
And  alien  tears  will  fill  for  him 

Pity's  long-broken  urn, 
For  his  niourners  will  be  outcast  men/;!  ari)  loT 

And  outcasts  always  mourn.  -^H 


iT 
...  :.,..,  ..„ ... ;p3i  A 


biioid«  'sdl  baqK-^H  dtiw  bn  * 


28 


T  KNOW  not  whether  Laws  be  right, 
-■■     Or  whether  Laws  be  wrong; 
All  that  we  know  who  lie  in  gaol 

Is  that  the  wall  is  strong ; 
And  that  each  day  is  like  a  year, 

A  year  whose  days  are  long. 

But  this  I  know,  that  every  Law 

That  men  have  made  for  Man, 
Since  first  Man  took  his  brother's  life, 

And  the  sad  world  began,  '.  ....t- 

But  straws  the  wheat  and  saves  the  chaff  ,    ,     , 

With  a  most  evil  fan. ,  ,1       r      •     / 

,/■;,  i  .  bfii;  l^lo  •-J&1  ^Kiiji  baA 

This  too  I  know  i^  ana  wise  it  wercr^ 

If  each  could  know  the  same  — 
That  every  prison  that  men  build 

Is  built  with  bricks  of  shame,'  '"^  '/o-nKn  riDfi3 
And  bound  with  bars  lest  Christ  should  see^^^ 

How  men  their  brothers  fnaim.  ''^ 

With  bars  they  blur  the  gracious  moon, 
And  blind  the  goodly  suwrt  -t  niiXMinm  /n 

29 


And  they  do  well  to  hide  their  Hell, 

For  in  it  things  are  done 
That  Son  of  God  nor  son  of  Man 

Ever  should  look  upon  ! 


The  vilest  deeds  like  poison  weeds 

Bloom  well  in  prison-air: 
It  is  only  what  is  good  in  Man 

That  wastes  and  withers  there : 
Pale  Anguish  keeps  the  heavy  gate, 

And  the  Warder  is  Despair. 

For  they  starve  the  little  frightened  child 
Till  it  weeps  both  night  and  day : 

And  they  scourge  the  weak,  and  flog  the  fool. 
And  gibe  the  old  and  gray. 

And  some  grow  mad,  and  all  grow  bad, 
And  none  a  word  may  say. 

Each  narrow  cell  in  which  we  dwell 

Is  a  foul  and  dark  latrine. 
And  the  fetid  breath  of  living  Death 

Chokes  up  each  grated  screen, 
And  all,  but  Lust,  is  turned  to  dust 

In  Humanity's  machine. 

30 


The  brackish  water  that  we  drink 
Creeps  with  a  loathsome  slime, 

And  the  bitter  bread  they  weigh  in  scales 
Is  full  of  chalk  and  lime, 

And  Sleep  will  not  lie  down,  but  walks 
Wild-eyed,  and  cries  to  Time. 


But  though  lean  Hunger  and  green  Thirst 

Like  asp  with  adder  fight, 
We  have  little  care  of  prison  fare, 

For  what  chills  and  kills  outright 
Is  that  every  stone  one  lifts  by  day 

Becomes  one's  heart  by  night. 

With  midnight  always  in  one's  heart, 

And  twilight  in  one's  cell, 
We  turn  the  crank,  or  tear  the  rope, 

Each  in  his  separate  Hell, 
And  the  silence  is  more  awful  far 

Than  the  sound  of  a  brazen  bell. 

And  never  a  human  voice  comes  near 

To  speak  a  gentle  word  : 
And  the  eye  that  watches  through  the  door 

Is  pitiless  and  hard  : 
And  by  all  forgot,  we  rot  and  rot, 

With  soul  and  body  marred. 

31 


And  thus  we  rust  Life's  iron  €ji»ii|{2i;[ofii(i  ^dT 
Degraded  and  alone  :  ;  £  rfjiw  zq^^O 

And  some  men  curse,  and  some  men  wefep^jnA 
And  some  men  rnake  no  moan:.  :      i:j,  ^I 

But  God's  eternal  Laws  are  kmdi^  qwIS  bnA 
And  break  the  heart  of  stone.    }J•^^l'3'biiY/ 


And  every  human  heart  that  breakfe/i^^uorfj  jufl 
In  prison-cell  or  yard,  /  qss  3^i  J 

Is  as  that  broken  box  that  gave  ^^Jil  svijri  ^W 
Its  treasure  to  the  Lord,  =  i&dw  lo'^ 

And  filled  the  unclean  leper's  housiC*  "^^  ^^^l^  ^I 
With  the  scent  of  costliest  nard.    '      •  -  *^ 

Ah !  happy  they  whose  hearts  can  break 

And  peace  of  pardon  win  ! 
How  else  may  man  make  straight  his  plan        ^ 

And  cleanse  his  soul  from  Sin?  :  /los.l 

How  else  but  through  a  broken  heart     ^'^•^  ^--^ 

May  Lord  Christ  enter  in? 

And  he  of  the  swollen  purple  throat, 

And  the  stark  and  staring  eyes, 
Waits  for  the  holy  hands  that  took  -^'^ 

The  Thief  to  Paradise ; ^'"tiul  bm  «k> 
And  a  broken  and  a  contrite  heart 

The  Lord  will  not  despise. 

32 


The  man  in  red  who  reads  the  Law 

Gave  him  three  weeks  of  life, 
Three  little  weeks  in  which  to  heal 

His  soul  of  his  soul's  strife, 
And  cleanse  from  every  blot  of  blood 

The  hand  that  held  the  knife. 

And  with  tears  of  blood  he  cleansed  the  hand, 


nl 


The  hand  that  held  the  steel : 
For  only  blood  can  wipe  out  blood. 

And  only  tears  can  heal : 
And  the  crimson  stain  that  was  of  Cain     ,  ;  „  /, 

_  1    u[ir\ 

Became  Christ's  snow-^hite  seal.  ^  i 

.jit  n  1 

/iK'jj  fhilool  'j;'.    ...  yjn  olA 

:,fisiaj{bniw  ^ril  ^imd  ^ 

J)3voI  3fl  ^gnirii  ^r!)  ^ 


.ri 


,ovoi  vfjrii  j:;iLUi:j  :.. 

,3looI  I^Vl' 
,biow  L  mtH    N 

!  biowg  fi  fljiw  n£fri  37fiid  ^d  i 


r 


a- 

33 


VI 

TN  Reading  gaol  by  Reading  town 
-^     There  is  a  pit  of  shame, 
And  in  it  lies  a  wretched  man 

Eaten  by  teeth  of  flame, 
In  a  burning  winding-sheet  he  lies, 

And  his  grave  has  got  no  name. 

And  there,  till  Christ  call  forth  the  dead. 

In  silence  let  him  lie : 
No  need  to  waste  the  foolish  tear. 

Or  heave  the  windy  sigh  : 
The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved. 

And  so  he  had  to  die. 

And  all  men  kill  the  thing  they  love, 

By  all  let  this  be  heard, 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look. 

Some  with  a  flattering  word. 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss. 

The  brave  man  with  a  sword  ! 


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